When She was Crawling



What was she thinking when she slit her wrist? Was it her pain? Was it too much? Was it the sadness? Was it unbearable? Was it the loneliness? Was it killing her? Was it her anger? Was it choking her up? Grasping for air, she crawled.
And she kept wondering whether she can love; whether she is able to love. She kept wondering whether she is capable in love; whether she is good enough. Was she never been good enough? Was she not capable to love? Harder to breathe, she crawled.
And the worst was that she kept thinking she wasn’t worth it. She kept thinking she didn’t deserve the love. She kept wondering whether she even ever been loved. Was there no one who loved her? But I am here though. I guess it’s not enough. Helplessly, she crawled.
I would give it all back for a chance to start over,
And rewrite an ending or two, for the girl that I knew,
Who’d be reckless just enough, who’d get hurt,
But who’d learn how to toughen up when she’s bruised,
And get used by a man who can’t love.

M.F

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